Can You See
by Kagemihari
Summary: [Fudo fic, Tachibu] You asked me silently, what do you see? Can you see what I see? Can you see me? What do you see when you look at me? And this is what I told you.


Kagi's notes: actually part one of two, sort of. This part was written for a pic that drew, and then I talked her into drawing another pic if I wrote more fic, so... that part is coming, for the second pic. But this part is the fic in it's entirety as far as the idea I had for the original pic. 

_For my Lethy--for her birthday, her pic, and for being the lovely person that she is; and also, for being the only other person in the world who loves this pairing as much as I do. _

* * *

**Part One - Can You See**

It was just one of those days.

The kind of day when fate, or karma, or some benevolent god randomly shifts the gleaming threads of life and crosses them, an intersecting point of light to create a single, perfect moment out of time.

It didn't start out that way, of course. There was nothing especially fateful about the day when it started--just an ordinary day, a free day, and the only notable thing about it, really, was that I could spend the entire day with you. But that was worth noting, I thought, and it made me smile as I waited for you, early in the morning.

I stood outside your house and watched your window, even though I knew you were already on your way out--but I was thinking about the way the sunrise caught your hair when you leaned out and waved at me, and I hadn't moved yet.

It was nice enough to walk today... chilly, but getting warmer. Bring a jacket, I had said, and you complained that it was going to be hot, later, and you wouldn't want to carry it.

It'll be cold, that early; wear it, I said, and you had frowned and muttered. But you came outside with a jacket on, although it was hanging open. I shook my head and fastened it for you, and you made a face, but didn't argue.

I didn't ask where we were going. I didn't know and you hadn't said, but it didn't matter much; let's go, you said, and you didn't say where--but you knew I didn't care. I wondered, later, how you knew, and if you had known why; but it wasn't important then, or now, and I have never asked.

It grew cloudy as we walked, and you worried that it would rain. So what if it does, I asked, amused, and you thought about that, and smiled. So rare, to see that smile of yours, and it made me smile too--neither of us is the kind that smiles often, but I love it when you do.

For a while we walk in silence, because you are still waking up, but I know that won't last long. I see you blink several times, looking sleepy and content, like a cat whose patch of sunlight has been disturbed. It makes me feel warm inside, and I know where the sunlight has gone. I tilt my head back, looking up to hide the tiny quirk of a smile lurking on my face again.

The sky is definitely clouding up--I think you are right about the rain, but it is warm and the rain will be light, and I don't mind. You will enjoy it, if you aren't thinking that I don't, and I like watching you enjoy things.

Finally you yawn, hunching your shoulders against the chill, and I carefully don't comment on the way you would be cold without your jacket. You start mumbling about it anyway, after a bit, wondering why it can't be hot all day when you know it's summer now and the afternoon sun will be blazing. But it's cool right now, and it isn't fair, you say, that you have to wear a jacket on a summer day.

I listen to you ramble, a rippling murmur that washes over me--the only sound in the quiet, mostly empty streets. It doesn't seem to matter to you if I'm listening or not, and mostly I can't tell if you're talking to yourself or to me, or to the world in general, but I like listening to you talk.

We take the train, not too far, heading out of the city, and you still don't tell me where we are going, except to say mysteriously that you have something to show me. You look happy, if a little uncertain, and I realize that you are not entirely sure I will see what you see when we get there.

I could tell you that if you like it, I know I will--but that goes without saying. So I had guessed, is all I say, dry words with a smile, and you grin suddenly as if I had reassured you.

Comfortable silence falls as you watch the world go by outside the window--you had silently insisted on sitting there, and I let you, with a smirk. Watching your peaceful, contemplative expression is a feeling of content, and I wonder if the world looks different to you than it does to me. I think, somehow, that it does, and I ask you what you see.

You turn that thinking look on me, and then you smile. Trees, you say, and lots of sky. Your smile turns secretive then, and I know you are thinking about where we are going again. I don't ask, although I am curious now, because it still doesn't matter. Anywhere is fine with me, as long as I'm with you.

Almost there, you whisper at last, turning back to me, and that secret smile is dancing in your eyes now--quiet, hidden, easily missed, but I know what to look for. The train slows and stops, and you nudge me, impatient for me to stand and move so you can get out and walk ahead. Silently amused, I get out of your way, thinking how attractive you are with that intent, focused gleam in your eye.

You are muttering again about how slow the train is and whether I am keeping up and some other things I don't quite catch, but I am listening more to the tone of your voice than your words, hearing the undercurrent of happy anticipation.

It occurs to me that what you are happy about is that I am with you, that you are showing me something you think I will like, or hope that I do, and I hope that you are right. You are often right about me, but I will be disappointed with myself if I don't understand what you want me to see. I wonder briefly at the idea that I make you happy--I wonder why, and how, and decide that it doesn't matter why, so long as it is.

I am happy too when I am with you, and I wouldn't be able to explain how, or why you make me feel the way I do--I just know that you do. I like being with you, watching you, listening to you talk; I have never told you this, but I think that you know it.

We wander out on the platform, and you drop your bag--it's your tennis bag, more than you'd need for a trip like this, I would think, but then again it's you and I don't always understand the way your mind works. You drop it and stretch lazily, catlike again, and I hide the brief smile that says I am amused by the comparison.

You are distracting, though, when you do that, and I don't think to ask you which way to go, simply standing watching--the way your back arches and your eyes close briefly, lashes fluttering down to rest dark against your pale skin, the way your shirt and jacket rise teasingly, not quite far enough.

I watch the way I always do, and I wonder, as I've done more often of late, what you would do if I touched you. If I came up behind you and slipped my arms around you, sliding my hands beneath your shirt and touched you the way I want to. I wonder if you would like it...I wonder if you would mind.

I wonder if you know that I want you. Sometimes I think that you do--sometimes I think that you want me to. But I am never sure. Your eyes hide as much as they reveal, and that distant, faraway look you get makes me want to climb inside you and figure you out.

You are looking at the sky again and grumbling about the likelihood of rain, and I don't bother reminding you again that it doesn't matter. You know this, but you want this day to be perfect, and you don't like things you can't control. The day is perfect already though, and rain isn't going to change that.

You don't waste much time on it though, picking up your bag again and looking around for the exit. I see it before you do and start heading that way, knowing you will follow. Still grumbling as you reach my side, you have moved on from rain to the fact that we now have to walk the rest of the way. Since I have no idea how far that might be, I assume this is mostly due to you preferring not spend that kind of effort on anything other than tennis, rather than it actually being that long of a walk.

I quietly interrupt your mumbling to say that I don't mind walking with you, and you actually stop talking for a few minutes, but you look happy. Soon enough you start up again, completely random rambling this time about something which appears to have nothing to do with anything. I wonder absently how you got from here to there in your thoughts...but I am used to not knowing, and it doesn't sound like you are expecting me to know, so I listen partly to what you are saying and mostly just to the sound of your voice, and let you talk.

There are lots of trees here, and I remember you saying what it was that you saw--trees, and lots of sky. Outside the city here, in this patch of nature mostly undisturbed, one can see plenty of both. It's a soothing, relaxing feeling to wander down the road with you, although I still cannot see anything to give me an idea about where we are headed.

The trees are growing larger now, and closer together, and I almost miss the pathway leading in when you stop and look around a bit, before leaving the road and heading for the trees. A trail? Leading where, I wonder; or perhaps this is already the destination, a place to wander through the woods. Remembering the way you complained about walking, somehow, I don't think so. You might enjoy it, another time, but that is not why we are here today.

I follow you anyway, noting that you are now muttering about the fact that this trail is much easier to pass in early spring, when the weather has not been warm for long enough to allow so much undergrowth in the wood itself. Summer is nice, though, you say--you like the heat.

As we walk, you kick a few fallen branches out of your way, then find one that is to your liking and pick it up. You use it as a walking stick for a short time, then settle for using it to strike at passing weeds and brush, and pushing back occasional overhanging leaves to duck beneath them.

Having no stick of my own, I use my hands when necessary to dodge trailing foliage that intrudes itself onto the path, and when you find another branch that suits you, you pick it up and hand it to me. The tiny smirk on your face is wickedly attractive as you say, here--don't say I never gave you anything. That's a buchou stick, you add, nodding as if this were a profound statement, and I look at it, bemused.

It's a straight, sturdy stick, stained dark from lying fallen in various kinds of weather, longer than yours and not as slim and graceful. A good support were I to actually use it for walking rather than your random lashings of the innocent undergrowth along the trail. Hm. Thanks, I answer dryly, shaking my head, but I am smiling again.

The first drops of rain finally begin to filter through the leaves overhead, a soft, rushing whisper accompanied by faint dripping noises. You frown at it for a minute before deciding that you don't mind, after all, your expression smoothing out again as you grow quiet, seemingly listening. Tilting my head back, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the fresh, earthy smell of the rain washed woods.

I wonder what it's telling you, that rush of nearly noiseless sound, a not-quite-there murmur that might or might not be as random or as obliquely reticent as your own, speaking mysteries and secrets that are as vague as they are alluring, and I am briefly envious of understanding them. As I am of you, but I have time for that. All the time in the world.

You slow down, gradually, as the path begins to open out, as if you were almost reluctant to come to the end of it, and I wonder again what exactly is waiting there. What do you want me to see? But we are nearly there now, the end in sight around one last bend in the pathway, and you stop when we reach it, just looking. Then you seem to sigh, slightly, and I cannot tell if it is with reluctance or simple appreciation as you move out of the trees into the open space beyond.

Curiously, I follow close behind, suddenly wanting very much to know what we have come to find. You turn and study me as I come out into the clear, your face solemn, an almost wary look in your eyes, and I want to reassure you, but I know it is only that you want me to understand. Your lips part briefly as if you were about to say something, but instead you silently turn away and wait for me to speak.

I see now that the open space is a small, sandy beach, a quiet hidden shoreline that you must have found and made your own. It is peaceful and beautiful, the water stretching out from it in gentle rippling waves, enclosed on either end by the embracing trees. I shake my head, wondering dumbly how you found it, and when--suddenly wishing I had been with you, then, to watch the slow quiet delight spread from your eyes to your lips in that silent, wondering smile you would have had.

A similar expression steals across my own face now, and I turn to find you looking at me with just a shade of apprehension in your eyes. The slow, wide smile I give you feels warm and glowing, as if I were standing in the sun instead of the light rain that is still falling. A secret place, I say, meaning both more and less than the simple words, but I think you will understand.

The slight tension in your body suddenly relaxes, and your eyes light with something that could be relief, if it were not so pleased as to be almost smug. You look around, searchingly, as if finding every little change in the landscape since the last time you were here. It is, you say simply with that faint, almost smile, and to my slight surprise you say nothing more, merely walking forward, lingering, reacquainting yourself with the place; and I think, for some reason, that it has been awhile since you've been here.

I wander after you, slowly, watching you as much as the view around you, liking the way you fit into this quiet place as if it had been made for you. Suddenly I am very glad that you chose to share it with me, that I've seen what you wanted me to see, as if I have met some challenge and surpassed it. But then, you have always been a challenge I could not resist.

There is a hammock swinging forlornly at one end of the beach, and your random feet pause beside it as you run a familiar hand over it, like greeting an old friend. Then you sigh and wander back over to me, dropping your bag, heedless of the damp sand, and look up at the grey midday sky with a sulky expression. Why is it raining, you ask rhetorically, it's not supposed to rain, you say. You sound as if it had personally offended you, and I hide a smile.

It'll stop soon, I assure you, because it's that light sort of summer rain that comes and goes quickly, as if it had never been.

You look thoughtful then, staring out at the water, and then back at me. You tilt your head, considering, and you ask me if I ever went swimming in the rain. A little surprised, I study the ruffled surface of the water--I had never really thought about it. No, I say, do you want to?

You think about it for a minute, eyeing the sky and the water and the rain, and say doubtfully that it might be cold. Not that cold, I assure you. The weather is too warm, even at night, for the water to be that chill, even when it's cloudy.

Thinking some more, you say absently that you always wondered what the ripples on the water looked like from underneath, when the rain was falling. I shake my head--it's not raining hard enough, I say, I don't think you'll be able to tell.

You consider that briefly as you tilt your head. But your mouth has that slightly stubborn cast which means you have found an idea you won't let go of easily. I want to, you answer firmly, and I nod, slightly intrigued myself, though more by your interest in it than the idea itself.

Almost dreamy sounding, you continue, as if you are speaking your thoughts aloud. I like to stay underwater for as long as I can, you murmur to yourself, looking up and pretending I belong down there and it's quiet and warm and I feel light, everything seems too far away to worry about. It's like a different world, and everything looks different through the water--the sunlight filtering through, shapes on the surface, the sky... maybe the rain looks different too. When I'm there, it's silent and perfect, and I don't have to see or think or be anything...just me.

You'd make a good mermaid, I say without thinking, and then I realize how that sounds. So I grin teasingly at you, wondering how you will react, if you will be offended.

A mermaid? you ask, sounding surprised and a little perplexed. But then I'd have a tail... I don't have a tail, you assert, looking down at yourself as if to confirm this. It might be nice, though, if I could live underwater and breath it... never have to come up again where it's cold or windy or...

You continue like this, listing the reasons why you might like it. You like water, any kind of water, and I think that you would indeed be right at home there. But if I was a mermaid, you conclude, I couldn't play tennis, and that would suck; I don't want to be a mermaid. The words are emphatic, as if you had decided something of great importance.

No, that would suck, I agree; and then I hear myself add, you're hot enough just the way you are. I really did not mean to say that. Ah well...I don't think you'll mind, and I act as if it were just a casual statement of fact, hoping that you won't take it...the wrong way, whatever that might be. I wonder if you would be shocked that I think of you this way; but you only grin, as if you had already known it.

Taking off your jacket, you drop it on the sand beside your bag. Let's go swimming, you say, part invitation and part challenge, and I smile wryly. Of course. Even if I should ever want to, I could never say no to you. You are already in swim trunks under your clothes, and I smile again and shake my head. You've been planning this for awhile. I change quickly in the nearby trees, and follow you into the rainy water.

The sea is warm, but cloudy, mirroring the sky...more grey and green than blue today, at least from underneath. You duck under and true to your word, stay down for a long time before you reappear, breathless, throwing your head back and taking a deep lungful of air before shooting a look at me, a sharp grin lighting up your face. Rain streams down over your already wet hair and skin, making you look truly like you were made for this world.

If I'm a mermaid, you wonder aloud, then who are you...

I smirk, and reply briefly that I am the prince who wishes you were human, so I could make you mine. You give me an odd look, and for a minute I think I have dared too much; then you answer seriously, I would turn human for you.

I give you a slow smile that feels entirely too warm, and wonder if the heat on my face is showing. Probably not, in the gray sort of light today, but I wonder. I rarely blush, even slightly, but I keep saying things I don't mean to say, around you.

You smirk then, and splash water at me, tackling me under while I am trying to clear my vision. We wrestle under the water for a minute, trying to hold each other down, until we have to come up for air. With that teasing grin you explain that maybe I should just become a mermaid too. That is a much less attractive mental image, I think, and I say so.

You tilt your head, considering that as you study me, and I have no idea what you see, but apparently it amuses you; a smile flits across your mouth and settles in your eyes, and you nod, briefly. You wouldn't make a very good mermaid, you announce thoughtfully. You decide that maybe _you_ would, since I said you would so probably you would because I think so. But, you tell me, not you--you would be my handsome prince.

You shoot me a look from the corner of your eye as if to judge my reaction, a faint, sly smile touching your face; and I nod, gravely, as if this whole discussion made perfect sense, as if it didn't make my heart trip to hear you say that. So we can both play tennis, I conclude, not quite a question, and you grin.

Exactly, you answer--but we both know this conversation is not about tennis. Good then, I say, come out of the water, mermaid--I am hungry.

You sniff as if you were offended, but your eyes are shining again, with amusement and something else I don't quite dare put a name to. We make our way back to the shore, not without several more interruptions by way of dunking or splashing, and sit on the sand to eat the lunch we brought.

We don't talk, sitting side by side and looking out at the water, but I catch you giving me sideways glances with a tiny, secret smile. I can't help the slight quirk of my lips in response, and my fair share of looks in your direction. Unlike the empty sea, you are fascinating to me.

It does stop raining very soon, and the sun burns quickly through the remaining light clouds with fierce efficiency by the time we are finished eating. You stretch out and lean back on your hands, face upturned and eyes nearly closed, still smiling. I think again how much I would like to kiss that smile of yours, but I sit still, silently watching until you open your eyes again and stare out over the water. Your expression is distant now, and I wonder what you see, what you are thinking about.

You sigh then, and seem to remember that I am there, giving me judicious look that I cannot interpret. Again that faint amusement flickers in your eyes, and you stand smoothly, reaching down to pull me to my feet. Come on, you say, if you are my prince, we must build you a castle. I blink and raise an eyebrow, asking what you mean.

Sand castles, you inform me, as if really I should know that. I suppose I should. That's what people do at the beach, you say, and I have to admit this is true; but it has been a very long time since I have done so.

Don't worry, I'll teach you, is your reply, and I am amused by the tolerant seriousness of your tone, as if it were a matter of great importance that I know how to make sand castles properly.

You find a place that suits you, where the sand is not too dry nor too near the water, and draw some lines in the sand to mark off where you are building. I copy your movements as you begin to shape the walls, surprised and intrigued by the amount of detail you have decided to put into this--inside walls and outside, with rooms and staircases and turrets.

Your hands are quick and deft, the motions of much practice and long familiarity--this is something you enjoy a great deal, and the tone of your voice is pleased and content as you show me what to do, getting sidetracked often by your explanations of what each room is and the people who live in it.

It occurs to me to wonder, after some time, that you have thought about this before. Possibly a lot, with the amount of detail you are giving me. I wonder when, and why, and if it is the same reason that you knew I was not going to ask what you where we were going. Or perhaps you are making it up as you go along, but either way, you are putting a great deal of thought into it.

I am distracted as I watch you and think about this, helping you but not trying very hard, being more interested in watching the way your expression changes as you talk and your strong, slender hands as they shape the sand. After the third time I accidentally damage part of your construction, you get exasperated and tell me I am no good at this, and to sit still and let you do it.

I smirk silently and move back a little, letting you work as I sit beside you, hands clasped around an upraised knee as I watch you to my heart's content. You look up a few times with a faint question, almost uncertainty in your gaze as you feel my eyes on you, but I am simply watching; I can feel that warm content in my expression again. You seem to shrug then, your shadow smile hovering briefly as you continue building, still rambling quietly, half to me and half to yourself about the castle and it's inhabitants.

It's quite an elaborate masterpiece for a spur of the moment idea, and for having no tools to work with other than your own hands. Rooms, corridors, more than one story... a tower and a gate. And of course, a moat. Every castle must have a moat, you say, and perhaps this is some unwritten law of sand castles; but I suspect it is merely that you are going to enjoy flooding it with water when you are done.

I have no idea how long it is that I spend sitting there, watching you as you remain focused, determined. It's damn attractive, that focus you turn on things that you care about--one of the reasons I love playing against you is to see that gleam of fierce intensity turned in my direction.

I keep my arms wrapped tightly around my knee so that I don't give in to the temptation to reach out and touch you--your hair, to brush it back out of your eyes, your quick clever fingers that I want to twine with my own, the tiny frown of concentration you get that is far too kissable.

It seems somehow sharper than usual today, the ache of not touching you, and it's starting to get to me. I carefully don't think too hard about how much I want to, but you keep drawing my attention with the gracefully attractive lines of your body as you bend over your work, which is truly a work of art--though, I think wryly, no less so than yourself.

I get up once in an effort to distract myself, and go to find two bottles of water among our things. You nod rather absently in thanks, and proceed to ignore it after taking just one drink. Amused, I drink my own and wait for you to finish--you are almost done now, and it's midafternoon.

Finally you look up at me and that rare, true smile steals across your face. So, what do you think, you ask, and I shake my head and smile back. It's magnificent, I say, and it is. I feel oddly as if I should be thanking you, for all that it's a fairytale, this castle by the sea. But you made it for me, and I know that more went into it than fantasy and dreams. You've put too much care and effort into it for it not to be somehow personal, for you, and for me; and I am not quite sure if I can believe what that might mean, for us.

A tingle ripples down my spine as I consider that, and I shiver slightly. There is something about this day that feels set apart--isolated here from all the things that usually keep us focused on the world around us. You brought me here to see this--your secret place, your world, and now, there is only you.

Somehow it doesn't matter today that I don't really know what you want; that your teasing words and the looks I've seen you giving me could mean anything, or nothing at all. Today more than ever, I am convinced that maybe, just maybe, they could mean everything, too; but I don't need to ask. Words aren't necessary, right here, right now, and we are both silent for a moment, gazes mingling and both of us smiling faintly because we know, for the moment, everything we need to, and we have time to discover exactly what that means.

You are grinning then, mischief in your eyes, and the stillness doesn't break so much as it shimmers and fades when you look around, seeing how late it is. You ask me if I really sat here all this time and just watched you, but you don't seem to be expecting an answer, as you go on to grumble and mutter at the sun which refuses to stand still for you. But you look pleased, still, and I know that you don't really care how long it has been.

I follow more slowly as you get up and stretch, and head back toward the water, now flat and calm and infinitely blue like the deep darkness of your eyes. Are you coming, you call back to me, and I nod, deciding not to mention the fact that I am watching you again. I can never resist for long the lure of your presence, anyway; even to keep looking at the picture you make, standing on the shore alone, framed by the sand and water and sky. It remains in my memory, graven alongside a thousand other images of you that I look at, perhaps, far too often.

The water is pleasantly warm now, soothing your muscles which are stiff from having spent too long in one position. You float on your back and watch the sky, and wonder aloud about the mystery of the sky being blue and some other random things that I am not really paying attention to. I lay beside you, floating too and not quite touching, listening to the way your voice is muted slightly by the water, and vaguely taking note of the rippling, slightly echoey effect the liquid distortion has on the sound.

It's a calm, peaceful feeling, suspended here with you between earth and sky--neither grounded nor flying, yet somehow with a sense of both, supported gently by the cradling waves that lap around us. I lose track of time again, and don't really care, being perfectly content to simply listen to the sound of your voice talking about anything and everything under the sun.

The sun which is, indeed, still hot and bright overhead, slanting toward evening but not yet really far enough to cool from it's earlier fierce heat. It makes its way into my bones, heating me from within the way your eyes do, when they get that certain intent glint which makes me want to take you and own you; to learn you inside out by touch and taste and soul until I know exactly how it feels to have that bright quicksilver focused entirely on me, flooding my senses with sharp, cool fire like the blade of a knife. Until I can make it a part of me so deeply, that I can feel it even when you are not there.

I close my eyes, pushing aside the restlessness of these thoughts and let the heat soak in, wishing that I could drown in you as easily as this water. But then I think, perhaps, that I already have.

After awhile, we turn and swim lazily back to shore, and you are mumbling between strokes about how we should race and you could probably beat me, but you are feeling too lazy to race right now, so we're not, but if we did you bet you would win so we should try it sometime. I agree with you in some amusement that we should try it, and privately to myself that you are probably right about winning, too, but there's no reason you need to know that.

As we wade the last few metres in to shore, I try not to think about how this day is going to be over soon, how short it's been, how _not enough_ it is. It's just a day, just one day, an ordinary day--but it's you that makes it amazing. I have spent the entire day with you, and it only makes me think how much I wish we could do this every day. Not this, specifically, necessarily; but to see you and listen to you and be with you from morning to night. All day, every day.

I decide to make the most of the hours we have left, remembering everything as if I were taking snapshots in my memory--the trees, the shoreline, the water and the sky stretching out to infinity; and you in the middle of it all as if you were part of it, as if to say, do you see? Do you see what I see?

I want to say, I see you. I do. I see what you see.

I am hanging back again to watch you, and you wander over to the worn hammock and smile slightly--I wonder again about the time you have spent here before, when and why and for how long...it seems an ideal place to camp, and the hammock appears to have been well used. But that could be simply from having been, as it obviously was, left out in the elements for months or years. You are still feeling lazy, comfortably worn out, and you sprawl bonelessly into the curving net and let your eyes fall half-closed.

Again it strikes me how much you look like a sleepy cat in the sun, and the corner of my mouth twitches as I hide a grin. For some reason I love this image of you, although you might not find it so appealing. Then again, knowing you, you will love it and insist on deciding what kind of creature I represent, as well. I am, in fact, curious as to what you might come up with; perhaps I will ask you sometime.

I stand for a moment at the water's edge and look out at that endless sea, and I wonder as I have before...having seen you, and seeing what you see...can I ask, can I believe, what you see when you look at me? But now...now I see that I already know the answer.

Here and now I am caught by the sense, the awareness that this answer is that by which my life will be defined. And the question is that which my heart stopped needing long ago. I realize that I've been watching, waiting, wondering; but it's already been decided. Here, in this moment, I don't have to wonder. I know.

I believe that you make your own destiny; that each person can do whatever they dare or dream they can. I've never believed in fate or any god--but I do now.

I feel now that sense of awe which comes only with the touch of a higher power, that wonder of something greater than yourself guiding the steps you take. The grateful sense of knowing that you stand at the crossroads of what is and what is meant to be, and that what is meant to be, will be. You can't miss it.

I remember suddenly that I may never have believed in fate, but I've always believed in you.

I turn and see you sitting there, stretched out and soaking up the sun, the invitation in your smile, and it suddenly hits me that this, this is the moment. A moment I've been waiting for without even knowing it, waiting all my life, but this is it. I stand there in a blinding moment of clarity, not breathing, and I know before I move what will happen.

You will look up as I come closer, lazy and almost smiling as my shadow falls across you, and your eyes will be those mysterious depths that always draw me in. I'll move without really thinking, pulled closer by the magnetism of your gaze, kneeling, leaning forward, and it will be like gravity, like fate, that instant when your lips touch mine. And we will never afterward remember which of us closed that last distance, because it will be a single perfect moment where that is, suddenly and surely, the only thing that can happen.

I won't be able to close my eyes, won't be able stop watching the way your own gaze darkens and your eyelids flutter shut--I will want to remember and know everything about this one point of intersection that changes everything. The place in time where our parallelled threads of story will twine together in a single unbroken strand; stronger together, now and always.

From that point on, we'll know that we belong together, that nothing will ever again be as important to me as you. And the silence in between us, the words that we don't say, will say more clearly than any words could tell that I'm yours, and you are mine, forever. And even though this truth we know will only have begun, it will be, somehow, as if we've always known it.

And it will never matter, later, what led us to this point--the beginning is everything, the future is now, and this is all the matters.


End file.
